A Bustle in Your Hedgerow: NOLA
by Distance
Summary: NOLA, Book 2. The idea that the past comes back to haunt us is foolish. It never leaves - we merely choose to ignore it for a time. Besides, the difference between past and present is too minor to mention... A Turk story, for old and young ghosts alike.


A/N: I always intended to make the story told through NOLA as a sort of trilogy. A) I've always wanted to write a trilogy. B) I decided before I even really started writing NOLA that the whole thing would be modeled after the work of Down, and they have three studio albums. Once again, not entirely sure where this will go, but whereas NOLA centered around the timeline of Advent Children, this will follow Dirge. I originally intended this "book" to be more heavily influenced by the music, but I think I'll actually end up going in the opposite direction. I don't really like songfics anyway.

Also, a big thank you to everyone who reviewed NOLA. Lots of constructive criticism was had, and hopefully it will make this a better read. If it's remotely enjoyable, it's thanks to you guys (especially **Licoriceallsorts** and **Jebus Creiss** – you guys put more thought into reading that than I did writing it). But don't hold your breath on better spelling. It is my bane.

There seemed to be a lot of confusion in NOLA in regard to Vincent, his thought processes, etc. Warning – it will most likely get worse from here. The duality of the life of a Turk in AVALANCHE and whatnot. If it gets so bad it's unreadable, let me know. I doubt I'll change anything, but at least I'll know.

Vincent's POV.

**A Bustle in Your Hedgerow: Part One**

**There's Something on My Side**

_It took a lot to sell my soul..._

I must admit, I am slightly ashamed at how hard it was to simply say, "no." It was the obvious answer.

The issue was – what is a man without purpose? In retrospect, I think that's the truth behind his suggestion. Young men that struggle with the question of purpose may become frustrated, but it is not a dead end. With youth comes purpose, it is merely a challenge of discovering what that purpose is. It is not true purposelessness.

A man must step back and assess his life – removed from the trappings of emotion. It is an ability I've always had – an ability that has only increased in strength with the passage of time.

I have no home.

I have no family.

I have no goals.

I have no job and no true need for money, no hobbies. I have no one relying on me, no one I am obliged to.

The list of questions I could answer "no" to is endless.

Thus, I have no purpose.

_I will never lie and say I'm still alive…_

I remember those first days after Meteor. There was much talk of "what now." It seemed foolish to me, but I suppose I had the benefit of watching from a removed position. It is easy to get lost when you are the one in the woods, but the bird in overhead flight has a prime view of your blunders and missteps – he doesn't understand why you don't just go where you're meant.

For the others, our self assigned "mission" was a means, not an end. The fight was for the preservation of the Planet – to avenge loved ones past. The goal was to ensure the safety of those things held dear. Victory was just the next step in the process of life.

For me, it was the end. I fought because the fight was the only thing I had left. I fought for no reason other than the immediate ends – revenge, my final chance at atonement. My mission was not part of the larger picture – it was the totality of it.

Of course, there were other fields to tend. The Remnants. Geostima. I have no clear cut justification for my part in those solutions. If one were to ask, I would likely avoid the subject. Answer with silence and allow them to fill in the words they assume, the answer they wish. The honest truth? Boredom, for lack of a better term. Contrary to popular belief, I am not prone to suicide. Three decades is 30 years too long to spend in a coffin.

So I fought.

Not for revenge. Not for camaraderie. Certainly not for the sake of the Planet. It was merely a reactionary measure – a reflex. There was no purpose behind it.

He knew that – at least a part of it. The life of a Turk is the lack of life. Family, friends, home – they all are subordinate to the job. At first, perhaps, you take the job as a means to another end. Finances, protection, career, a way to exorcise your demons – whatever it may be, there is always a reason, an ulterior motive. A true end beyond the job.

After a time, these little ambitions and cares that together compose a man's life are consumed by the suit. The suit is your skin. The job is your heart.

The only true difference between myself today and the young man inducted into ShinRa's Department of Administrative Research is that the death of the finer details of life is no longer metaphorical. 30 years of isolation go a long way to sever a man's ties to the concept of life.

And when a man has no inherent purpose, he must seek something to assign a purpose unto him. It is either that or death. If tomorrow holds no meaning, no goal, tomorrow is a waste unworthy of living.

But all of this, in and of itself, is another lie. Another reactionary measure. A way to justify an uncharacteristic move. This, too, I believe he knows.

Because the job is not the Job. There is a bond between the dead left walking. There is peace in the eyes of others who understand that which cannot be understood – those that know that the murder, the espionage, the clandestine dealings, the _evil_ are all biproducts (because what I atone for has nothing to do with the lives I've taken). These things are not our purpose. There is safety in the collective that makes purposeless not just livable, but admirable. It has little to do with loyalty. It has nothing to do with trust. It just _is._

The fact that I could never even begin to explain this to someone who has never worn a blue suit and a shoulder holster is just further proof of its validity.

_But no pulse is in my veins…_

It is this final thought that compels me to put pen to paper – an act so far removed from my life, I have to pause and adjust to the feel of the object in my hands. Perhaps it is a trick played by the passage of time, but it feels nothing like I remember. The "pen" – I notice it is no longer referred to as a stylus – feels much lighter than I remember, the material feels flimsier. Despite the apparent weakness of the writing utensil, it still holds the proverbial weight of all worlds. Again, it is the tool I use to sign away my life – erase my lack of purpose. Time has replaced an application for employment with a lease agreement for a modestly sized apartment in Kalm.

My shame for hesitation to answer is replaced with the shame of lying. With a few drops of ink on paper, my tentative no has been replaced with a definitive yes.

It seems your trap has worked, Tseng. You are the more worthy hunter.

_I paid my price, then felt alive…_


End file.
